In St Mungo's
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: The Transfiguration teacher gave the merest flicker of a smile now, dreamily thinking of giving Peeves the direct order to have the bust of Paracelsus thrown at Dolores's head. In due time... A/N: Fluff for Minerva McGonagall. Takes place in OotP.


Long title, short, sweet story. Please flame; by all means, I do encourage it. Flamethrowers are prefered. Awfully warm they are.

- a l e x

* * *

**In St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

"Thank God Professor Tofty alerted us as soon as the exam was over. . .Oh, poor Minerva. . .Quick! Hurry up!"

Madam Pomfrey gave a muffled sob into her trailing robes as she was joined by Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout and Severus Snape, all of whom looked wide-eyed and shocked as they bustled after the matron across the lawn.

"Stunned, and by the looks of it four times," Snape whispered, his eyes lost beneath his greasy curtain of black hair as he came to an abrupt halt.

A pale, misty blade of light glowed ominously over the Forbidden Forest, barely cutting through the gray shadows of the grounds a visible path down to Hagrid's hut. Flitwick muttered a feeble incantation under his breath, gave his wand a wave, and from it erupted a gleaming white stretcher. The Charms Master gave his wand another twitch (_"Wingardium Leviosa!"_) and lifted the limp, splayed form of McGonagall onto the stretcher gently.

"That. . .that _frog spawn_," Sprout spat savagely, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her gray flyaway hair looked even more flyaway than usual, her dirt stains great imprints against her shabby robes. None of the others present needed telling who Professor Sprout was talking about: Dolores Umbridge had been looking frayed after Hagrid's flight only an hour ago, Fang swung over the gamekeeper's shoulders as he Dissaparated outside Hogwarts with several Aurors—three out cold—retreating in a mad attempt to avoid injury.

Indeed, the unconscious forms of Dawlish, Proudfoot and Savage were stilled curled among the green fronds of grass. Flitwick gave them all looks of deepest loathing, then turning away to where the stretcher hovered above the ground. Snape took a slow step forward, his eyes flickering, as he studied McGonagal for a few moments for signs of spell damage.

"She isn't—she can't be—?" Sprout choked out, looking close to something like panic. McGonagall was eerily still. It was hard to tell if her chest was rising and falling with any sign of breathing.

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to by Madam Pomfrey who was now taking the deputy headmistress's pulse. "No," she answered sadly, shaking her head. "But the damage is very grave—a bit fixed beyond my repair, four Stunners, dear God that could have killed her. She needs immediate treatment—"

Flitwick and Sprout exchanged dark looks; muttering something like "St. Mungo's" and "owls," they both set off in the direction of the castle at a swift pace. Snape and Madam Pomfrey were left alone together. Minerva's face was clammy and cold, looking almost uninhabited by the stern, solid presence of the great Transfiguration teacher. . .

"Severus," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, flourishing her wand to have the stretcher glide at her heels, "could you please collect the Aurors? For whatever"— she looked almost dangerous as she spoke —"_ill_ feelings we may have toward them at the moment, it would be foolish to leave them here to their own devices. Students would panic if they saw them just lying on the ground."

"Certainly," Snape replied, and he cast his spells: three more stretchers appeared, and he lifted the three unconscious men onto them (and he was bitterly reminded of a similar scene, involving a certain Ron Weasley, Hermoine Granger, Harry Potter, and Sirius Black two years earlier). Together they trotted rather hastily back up to the castle, Madam Pomfrey jogging at an alarmingly fast pace. Upon reaching the huge great oak doors they found Mrs. Norris scuttling about, her lamp-like eyes glowing as she meowed loudly.

"Out of the way, you ruddy cat," Madam Pomfrey snapped, hurrying along with Snape in her wake. They flounced down the corridors and pushed open the doors to the hospital wing; Flitwick and Sprout were already there, accompanied by Charity Burbage and Madam Hooch, looking grim-faced and distraught.

The four stretchers were brought into the room, which was already crowded; on one bed, the curtains draw around him, Montague was still in a daze and looking confused after his spin in the Vanishing Cabinets, reappearing in the toilets on the fourth floor rather recently.

Without speaking, the teaching staff seemed to understand what had happened: first by the large absence of Hagrid, who was twice the size of a normal man and three times as broad; second, by the out-cold Ministry workers that Madam Hooch, Charity and Madam Pomfrey were lifting onto hospital beds. Professor McGonagall stirred feebly; the teachers froze, eyeing her expectantly—but McGonagall remained as still and ill-looking as she had minutes ago.

"Healers from St. Mungo's will be here shortly," Flitwick said abruptly, as if to desperate to break the pressing silence.

"Thank you, Filius," Madam Pomfrey murmured, her eyes never leaving McGonagall's face. For once the Healer didn't seem to be bothered with the fact that there were lee-way six people crammed in the hospital wing, something she might have fussed over instantly had it been other circumstances.

"You know," Charity put in thoughtfully, her voice cracked slightly with grief, "if I weren't concerned for the students' well-being, I—I think I would resign and leave. Hogwarts isn't Hogwarts with_her_ here, and Albus Dumbledore gone. First dear Sybill, then Hagrid, and now. . ."

Again the silence became more pronounced as they waited, Madam Pomfrey, meanwhile, silently checking over the Aurors with hawk-like eyes.

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly, her brows furrowed. "They'll be alright, just take a while to be roused—I'll save that for the Healers at St. Mungo's to do. They were probably on the Minister's orders to attack Hagrid, I guess to avoid another scene like Sybill's."

Snape stood in the shadows of the corner, his black eyes solemn and cold, fathomlessly quiet. At last he spoke: "A very inconvenient time indeed. Umbridge must not have hesitated to attack, knowing this was one of the last Order members here at the school—myself not included, as I have played my part spy well—and she was too close to Dumbledore. My regrets, of course." He took a few steps toward the bedside and brushed his hand along the edge of the white mattress; taking it back to his side rather suddenly a few seconds later out of his reminisce. "We have company."

There was an anxious rap on the doors; Madam Hooch approached it to let two lime-green Mediwizards inside, both wearing the symbol of a bone and wand crossed on their robes.

"Where is she?" demanded the older of the two, a grizzled, weathered wizard with a taut face and dark green eyes. Impatiently brushing chin-length auburn hair out of his face, he rushed to Snape's side and pulled out his wand and a corked flask with some odd, swishing red-silver potion. Snape raised a brow in recognition, though the others looked blatantly confused.

"A more recent discovery," the auburn-haired Healer explained (he passed it to the other male Healer), as his partner began to apply it to an unconscious McGonagall. "This will be a sustenance until we reach St. Mungo's for further treatment. Now, where are the others?"

"We should leave," Madam Hooch murmured, looking aged beyond her years. "Jus. . .just keep us informed of her condition. Charity, we should—"

"Leave, yes," the Muggle Studies professor agreed. Gazing beseechingly from McGonagall to the Healers, they turned and left the wing with a soft click of the doors.

The assistant to the older Mediwizard took McGonagall's pulse again, then raised his own wand. He looked abashed. "Merlin's beard, I don't think she'll be able to walk for a while after this—I doubt there will be side-effects, other than pain—we can tend to that—"

"We will, of course," the auburn-haired Healer rumbled, "be informing your headmistress of her status with every hour of progression at St. Mungo's during Minerva McGonagall's recovery."

From his pockets he pulled out a bottle, ignoring the wide-mouthed gape and silent protests of Fliwick; instead, he poured a few drops of Essence of Dittany onto a scrape across Dawlish's cheek; it simmered a slight cloud of green smoke, and new skin began to heal rapidly over the bruised area.

Sprout's face became set and determined. "Of course," she answered curtly, her eyes flashing.

The two Healers went to collect the four stretchers and herded them out of the hospital wing; before leaving, the younger of the two let a grin spread across his ashen, narrowed face, and he added with a great stab of cheeriness, "Hagrid certainly did a number on these three. Regrettably, they might not wake up for a few_ hours_ even with spell work and concoctions to help them along. As for Minerva. . ." He bowed his face behind a bangs of tufted brown hair and added quietly, "We'll do our best. Good day to you all."

Nodding, he bounced out the door with a disheartened wave and closed it behind him, leaving the wing silent except for Madam Pomfrey's renewed, muffled sobs.

* * *

". . .Potion really helped. Smethwyck really worked his wand well, considering this isn't even his ward. . . .Should be coming around soon, I'd give it a few days, maybe sooner. Those two-faced Aurors pulled through, but. . ." There was an aghast pause in which the speaker, a witch's voice, choked, ". . .bad news, of course for Minerva. . .Dolores g. . . . .but the Ministry is starting to get it in their hea. . .I never really though You-Know-Who would. . ." 

Bits and pieces of a far-off snatched conversation rang dimly in the dark. Some feeble instinct stirred the old mind of the unconscious; pain, an ache that ran up one side, striking a nerve. Something soft lay underneath, as still as the ill was. The voices became louder, as if approaching. They echoed loudly and unnaturally, and the white light was quite blinding; it all seemed to be coming from down the length of some dark tunnel; it was growing grayer, less black—and rather reluctantly, gingerly, McGonagall opened her eyes.

She was laying face-up on a hospital bed, the clean, friendly whiteness of the room greeting her radiantly. Slowly, uncertainly, the witch craned her neck to glance around the room; it was empty all except for her. It was slightly blurred; realizing she didn't have her gases on, she reached to her left and found the wooden edge of a night stand, and her square spectacles. Hand drawn over them, McGonagall gingerly plucked them up and off the table onto her own face. Everything was thrown into sharper relief, including, at the foot of her bed, what looked like a great few colorful gift wrappers and packages.

"What the—?" she croaked feebly, trying to sit up, when a sudden jolt of pain ran up her spine and she slumped back down with a slight groan.

The witch outside the glass windows of the ward looked up; she was accompanied by an auburn-haired man, with deep green eyes and a plump face. A startled and delighted cry came from her mouth and she bustled in, the wizard striding after her with long, loping steps.

"Minerva!" the witch greeted her enthusiastically, searching over her with critical, unavoidable eyes. McGonagall shifted under the sheets and struggled to pull herself up, realizing she was in a tartan dressing nightgown (her favorite choice of wear).

The Healer held out a firm hand on McGonagall's shoulder and eased her back down. Despite her motherly faze, she looked with tender care and caution at the Hogwarts teacher. "Sit. Here"—she gave her wand a wave, and on the bedside table appeared a cup of tea, tempting puffs of cirrus-white steam rising from the china —"It's from downstairs. Would you like some cream, sugar?"

Slightly bewildered, she mumbled "cream" and the Healer summoned it at once, adding it while humming to the cup of tea. Instead, she let her eyes flicker to the auburn-haired wizard and asked, "So this is St. Mungo's I'm in, I take it?"

"You take it right," he grunted, nodding. From his pockets he withdrew a swirling flask of bright red-silver, condensation building within the tiny bottle.

"Just a right bit of potion to take with that tea, Minerva."

McGonagall didn't answer. Stunned, she looked around slowly, trying to focus her last thoughts back to her head. Hagrid. . .the Stunners. . .

"Let me up!" she gasped, and bolted herself up, knocking the motherly witch back slightly with a slight "oomph".

"Rest, dear, rest!" cried the witch, forcing her patient back down again with her free hand. "And please, dear, if you won't cooperate then I'll be forced to use my wand—Oh I do hate doing that. . ."

"I, Minerva McGonagall? Only He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could ever keep me from my students—"

McGonagall gave a slight yelp as a pinch in her backside told her she had hurt a sensitive area; (both Healers had flinched as though slapped at the sound of his name), and the wizard placed down his potion and withdrew from his pockets his wand, standing at his partner's side so quickly that he might have been Summoned on the spot. He stretched out a hand and half-wrestled McGonagall into a laying position again, sighing.

"Hogwarts is _fine_, and so are your students," the Healer soothed her impatiently, lowering his wand and brushing a curtain of dark hair out of his face. "Now _stay_."

"Hagrid—and Umbridge—How long have I been here?" McGonagall spluttered, her graying hair out of its tight bun and wound around her chin; the lines across her faces tightened with strain, as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"Minerva, calm down. Now drink this." The Healer thrust the tea into McGonagall's trembling hands and took a few steps back, collapsing into an armchair. The older auburn-haired Mediwizard remained standing, looking poised for flight (or restraint on the restless teacher).

"How long have I been here?" McGonagall repeated, taking a shaky sip from the steaming tea.

"About a week. By the way," the witch went on, allowing herself a soft smile, "my name is Miriam Strout. I oversee the Janus Thickey ward, fourth floor, Spell Damage."

McGonagall's brows rose slightly. _The witch who oversaw Bode and the Devil's Snare? Back from suspension? _she thought dazedly, not really focusing. The Transfiguration teacher gave a slight cough and nodded in understanding, allowing herself a moment to calm down as the Mediwizard in front poured the now-sizzling red-silver potion into a clear glass cup. He stood, wiped his brow, and passed it to her.

"This should clear the pain, a few doses every hour on the hour. How are you feeling?"

While pausing to take the heavily bitter, thick drink, she grimaced and retorted, "I'd feel better knowing what's happened since last week."

Strout and the auburn-haired Healer both froze. They looked disgruntled, and very slowly Strout spoke: "Minerva, this might come as distressing to you. . ."

"What?" she snapped, narrowing her eyes with her former, strict gaze that often denied someone to cross her patience. "The less you say, the more you're _raising_ panic! What has happened?"

Under McGonagall's blazing stare Strout was forced to cave in: "Last Thursday. . .there were rumors. . .well, how do I—I say this? It isn't easy, considering there were so many outspoken against Dumbledore—and the boy—"

"Harry?" McGonagall interjected quickly. "Spit it out; I'm not getting any younger in this damned bed."

With great self-control the witch fumbled with her robes, and pulled out from the inside of the folds a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. She passed it silently, her great eyes wide and strained. The bold headline, under which a baffled Fudge shook his head fervently in the picture, read clearly

**HE**-**WHO**-**MUS**-**NOT**-**BE**-**NAMED**-**RETURNS**

Both Healers gazed expectantly at McGonagall; her lips pursed into a thin line and she placed the folded _Prophet_ on her chest, raising a thin, critical brow.

"This wasn't how we wanted to greet your recovery," trembled Strout nervously, twiddling her fingers.

McGonagall shrugged. "You-Know-Why was bound to return to this country and reveal himself eventually. It's what Albus has been saying for over a year, and Potter." Her narrowed eyes softened behind the square spectacles. She gave the newspaper a look of loathing, and handed it back to Strout sadly. Faint twinges of pain still ran through her, beating at intervals with her own thudding chest though not as badly as a minute ago. She looked up wearily, desperate to not delay another second. She was overall pleased Albus had been reinstated (_The idiots, they would have eventually done so._) and inwardly disturbed by the turn-out of events.

"When can I leave?" she asked in a forced-calm voice, taking a hasty sip of her tea. "I need to return to the school."

"We both agreed after another examination and dose of elixir, when we see you fit to stand," Strout answered pleadingly, sounding honestly, kindly, again, obviously desperate to change the subject. "And of course, there are letters here for you to open."

It took a bit longer for this to sink in. "Letters?"

"And a package," the male Mediwizard added casually as he paced the room, tidying it up with amble flicks of his long, slim wand. "All checked and searched."

"The mail too?" asked McGonagall sharply.

"Ever since. . . .well. . . .it's procedure now," Strout finished lamely, and she stood. "I must go and oversee the long-term resident, closed, ward for spell damage. Gilderoy's been in a state since he sent out all those pictures to Gudgeon. . .Agnes, too, getting better every day. You will be left in my colleague's care, Mr. Alaisdair Salus. Take care, dear."

She bowed respectfully and left out of the room. Salus looked around for a moment, before asking calmly, "Would you like your mail?"

"Wha—oh. . .oh, yes, thank you," McGonagall replied distractedly, accepting an envelope written on the outside in neat, slanted handwriting:

_To Minerva McGonagall  
Janus Thickey Ward, Fourth Floor  
Room 42_

Her hands trembled. There could be no mistaking his script. McGonagall made a strong effort to successfully pull herself into a sitting position and tear open the letter, unfolding the letter and reading it once, twice, six times, until she placed it on her lap where it lay openly:

_ Dear Minerva,_

_ I am hoping that you are fairing well after the ordeal outside Hagrid's. He is well, as I strongly hope that you are. For obvious reasons I am writing as such, given owl post is very sketchy. If you have not already seen the _Daily Prophet _(Most highly amusing, is it not?) then I am grave to inform you of the breech in that department we discussed on May the fifteenth. I, along with Fawkes's well-named, members of the organization, went after Padfoot's godson and his friends, cornered by U-No-Poo's deathly friends upon finding the six._ (McGonagall had blinked and reread that line twice, wondering if she had gone partially blind, until she saw another note _"check Mr. Weasleys' gift" _off to the side, then continued.)_  
If I am to hold off on telling you this, then saying it later will only come as a further shock and disgrace of me in burdening you later, rather than now: Padfoot took a fall through the veil after his cousin cursed him. You remember dear Bella? Of course, Prong's son is in turmoil. Best not mention it to him, if you could please be wise to not do so. He is coping well, and I could not be any prouder. He has been well-informed with what I shall delve with you that flighty temptress, in what you look upon as a subject to be disband and loathed. Half of the members of Fawkes's organizational name joined me for a spell. Everyone was injured in some way, but are recovery with great embrace. Dora is at St. Mungo's as well, having arrived the previous night this was sent. She will be delighted to see you. I will be visiting you when it is considered wise, upon your reply of owl and with consent of St. Mungo's Healers._

_ With your best health in mind,  
Hoping you did not question my sanity after reading this,  
Albus Dumbledore_

"My God. . ." she breathed, gasping for breath, trembling violently. "Sirius. . . ."

Salus looked up sharply and raised his wand.

"No, no, Alaisdair, I'm fine thank you. . ." she insisted stubbornly, shaking her head to clear it and regain control of her ragged breathing. Sirius Black, dead. It didn't seem right, it seemed mismatched with the proceeds of life and didn't fit: that Harry Potter's godfather, the Animagus, her former student, James's best friend and best man, so innocent, so sassy, so loyal and true, could be dead.

McGonagall scooped up the parchment again and re-read it, wondering if she had been mistaken. But, no, Dumbledore couldn't have been clearer (he literally couldn't have been, or else many curious Ministry workers would have questioned the letter's contents). Slowly, like reviewing for an exam, the code's message replayed in her mind. The Department of Mysteries. . .Potter, Granger, and Weasley would have gone. . . .the other three must have been friends or D.A. members. Fawkes meant the Order, so half of the Order went after them. And now the Ministry assumed the truth, they now know he's back._ "Deathly friends"?Death Eaters? _And the final part hit her full in he face: Bellatrix Lestrange.

Instinctively she raised a hand and placed it at the bedside table, where, surely enough, sat her wand. She lifted it to her ancient face and gripped it tightly, imagining the names of many hexes, jinxes and spells running through her head, all pointed in her mind's eye at the heavily lidded-eyed woman, her shriek-like laugh ringing in her ears. . .

_There's nothing I can do now, so give it a rest_, McGonagall reminded herself gently. Choked and tight-lipped Minerva glanced down the length of her bed and saw the package and a few other letters.

"_Accio box!"_

It came whizzing down the bed enthusiastically and thumped into her chest. She spluttered at the impact and her eyes bulged slightly. She lowered the box and saw a label on top, a purple stamp with yellow neon writing:

WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES

Intrigued, she opened the box with a Severing Charm and was greeted by an assortment of multi-colored products, from boxes with sweets to perfume-sized bottles; what looked like a wand, several quills with ink bottles, a package containing the fireworks she recognized from Umbridge's first day as Headmistress, a cloak, cards, what might have been butterbeer, and cockroach clusters, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and Cauldron Cakes. The flap of some great poster's corner poked out of the contents of the box; she reached in and yanked out a poster, not unlike the blazing purple label on the box, only the yellow, neon letters spelled different, flashing words:

**WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT  
YOU-KNOW-WHO?  
YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT  
U-NO-POO —  
THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION  
THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!**

McGonagall blinked rather stupidly before the words sunk in. Her normally strict face turned into a rare, humored smile; she shifted her glasses slightly and carefully placed it on the table at her bedside, next taking from the box a letter addressed to her in purple ink.

_ Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_ We heard what the old hag did to you and couldn't believe it! It's a relief to hear you're still up and about (Quite fit to reprimand a student, Fred bet, though I disagree). We hope you're feeling better. (We mailed some Dungbombs to Umbridge, by the way.) Anywho, we sent you some things that'll make your stay in St. Mungo's brighter (and louder). Some of our newest, more recently perfected products are the Skiving Snackboxes (even teachers need a day off), a Shield Cloak to block minor jinxes, Self-Spelling, Self-Inking and Smart-Answering quills, Instant Darkness Powder, trick wands (we sent you the less-violent brand, seeing as you could do with some good-old fashioned recovery), Canary Creams (turn into a canary instantly!), and WonderWitch products. (A love potion included, it lasts 24 hours depending on the weight of said gentleman and beauty of fair Transfiguration teacher.)  
There's some stuff from Honeyduke's and the_ Three Broomsticks _in there. We also owe you a lot of THANKS; Transfiguration helped us sort out some of the bugs in our products. (Charms, D.A.D.A., Potions and Herbology sorta helped too, now that we think about it.) Everything on our end is brightening up after you-know-what at the Ministry of Magic. You heard about Sirius, too, right? Poor bloke.__We really do miss him. I wonder how Harry's taking it? We haven't seen him yet. Anyway, please do feel better (and say hello to the others for us, please)._

— _Fred & George_

McGonagall blinked, her eyes suddenly wet with tears. Gently she took the box and lowered it, the poster and the letter off to the side of her bed, Summoning the other few envelopes. She opened the next one, written in hasty, tiny scrawl:

_Please come back soon! You're missed here at Hogwarts. We hope you're feeling better, Professor._

_LONG LIVE DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY!_

—_Colin and Dennis Creevey_

A surge of warmth ran through her like fire; she opened the remaining letters, each saying similiar things. Done at last, she turned her gaze onto Salus, who had been finishing with making the other empty beds.

"Nymphadora Tonks is here as well?" Minerva asked in a concerned voice, taking a relaxing sip of tea.

"She was brought here only two days ago. She's healin' up well," Salus answered, looking up. "Mind if I borrow one of those quills?" he asked suddenly, smiling awkwardly. "I forgot mine, and this crossword on the _Daily Prophet_—"

"Here." McGonagall tossed one to him; Salus caught it one-handed with reflexes like a Seeker, gave an appreciative bow, and scribbled furiously on the newspaper.

"As soon as you have your nine o'clock check-up, we can go and visit her, if you'd like. Though you might need a cane; reflexes might be slower, those Stunners did a number on you. . ."

His voice drifted off slightly as McGonagall contented herself with nodding slowly and only half-listening. Though the thought of such tedious, bothersome things made her shudder, it was now McGonagall's turn to nod with thanks. It was most urgent that she return to the school as soon as possible, but attempts at trying to fight and drag herself back to Hogwarts would prove fruitless (and inquire heavier security over their patient, when re-captured). She gave a low, whistling sigh and shook her head slowly, annoyed, fervent, confused and calm all at once.

But, Minerva McGonagall's eyes drawn to the letters and box of joke tricks, she relaxed and took a sip of the tea, her sharp eyes losing their edge behind her square spectacles. It was so touching, so thoughtful. . . . And she would be seeing Tonks later. The Transfiguration teacher gave the merest flicker of a smile now, dreamily thinking of giving Peeves the direct order to have the bust of Paracelsus thrown at Dolores's head. In due time. . .

_Maybe staying here a bit longer wouldn't be so bad after all._


End file.
